She Already Knows How It Goes
by Leara Fiera
Summary: Natasha convinces Clint into going to a funeral. It doesn't make him feel better. Maybe it isn't supposed to.


**A/N:** Back with another Clintasha story, heavily emotionally influenced by a roleplay I'm doing but deviating from it. It's not based on, but inspired by, the Ed Sheeran Song 'She', which I'd recommend for listening purposes. If there are typos, I apologize. I wanted it out there for replies ;)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or anything remotely affiliated with the Avengers and Marvel franchise.

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**She Already Knows How It Goes**

She's wearing some black garb, and he vaguely recalls having seen it before, although he does not attempt to make some joke about her and little black dresses. It is modest, but because she's fucking Tasha, she rocks it solid. He supposes that's what would make most girls green with envy, the ability to look fucking fabulous in just about anything. He wonders – briefly, because he's a guy and not supposed to notice or wonder about things like that, but he does, he does because she's Tasha – if it was a course in her former training and assesses that it probably was, or maybe she's always been that good at dressing up. Anyway, she looks fabulous in the black dress and the ballerinas with little silver ribbon-bows atop them. He frowns at this, because he'd have expected heels, but if he said so, she'd have given him some reprimand about the impracticability of heels and over-sexualization of feminine clothing, and he'd have pointed out why she even needed to think practically at such an event and that her job counts on over-sexualization.

But because they are who they are and it is what it is, he doesn't, and instead of smirking, the corner of his mouth merely twitches amused before resuming its sullen position. It's hard to crack jokes and banter on days like these and his suit is already damp at the cufflinks. It's a rental because God forbid Clint actually owns a suit, but Nat says it looks good on him, so maybe he'll reconsider. He hates what it'd imply, though, owning a suit. As if it somehow makes him older and sterner and less inclined to behave like a reckless teenager.

She clutches her little purse before throwing it on the bed and sitting down next to him, careful not to wrinkle the dress, almost like a real lady (which he's seen her enough times in tracksuits and bloodied and bruised and dirtied not to think). He wants to lighten the mood, to compliment her on how pretty she looks, but the words are stuck in his throat and all he can do is stare at her miserably.

"I don't want to go," he admits, half sighing, half growling. Her shoulders sag and he's surprised to look up and see an amused smile on her face. Puzzled, he tries to find the cause, and he hears her chuckle. It's a rich sound, often bittersweet but now oddly genuine, and he now wants to know more than ever what makes her chuckle like this. He sort of likes it.

"You'll regret it if you don't," she states kindly, almost motherly, as she removes a long strand of hair that's managed to rebel from its styled hairdo, and tames it back into its wax-applied hairstyle. She makes it sound so effortless, and as if she's the older, more experienced agent. He almost believes her.

"I know," he sighs, relaxing. He buries her head into her shoulder until he feels her bones dig into his skull. It's oddly reassuring and he breathes in her scent. "I just wish we could do something more fun instead… Like Dubai. Can't we go to Dubai instead? I'll take you up on that offer to rappel down that building," he tempts her with an insincerely mischievous smile, amusing her even further with his childish proposals.

"The others are going," she whispers with a sad smile. "It's the least you can do."

Something about her words makes him even more miserable, guilty for even having proposed skipping this event for something as childishly immature. He sighs, and somehow, his arms end up wrapping around her waist, and he notices how small she really is when she's not bullets-and-bombs Natasha Romanoff. He isn't sure if he likes it, but he likes her, so he'll take her regardless of all the flaws and quirks (that infuriates him and makes him feel horribly insecure and incompetent).

"I'm not good at funerals, Tasha. I barely remember my parents' funeral," he confides in her, speech slurred by the angle of which he's buried himself in her and her scent. He remembers little from the actual event, but then again, so many years have passed since and so much has happened since Clint sat one the benches with Barney's hand in his own. "Haven't really attended one since. Not wholly."

She does it again, running her fingers through his hair and even though it must be sticky, it's a comfortable caress. He's not sure who needs it most. "It's not your parents this time," she reassures him with a slight smile but he sees through her and knows how much it pains her to talk about parents.

"I know," he hurries to say, an apologetic look on his face. He grabs her wrist gently and absentmindedly starts to draw circles on it. Skin contact has always reassured him—at least, with her.

"The hymns are pretty," she says suddenly after having watched him draw circles for a minute or so. Semi-startled, Clint removes his head and looks at her quizzically. After having witnessed the many layers of the Black Widow, he's still oddly surprised that she'd say something like that, so simple, so innocent.

"I've never paid much attention to the hymns," he admits guiltily, twisting his untied necktie until it wrinkles. He's never been good at those things, never seen a reason to learn it, as it seemed pointless. He smiles wistfully and looks down to his lap. He doesn't know what to say or to do, and silence befalls them. With everybody else, it'd have been appreciated, but because it's Natasha and she knows him so well – too well, superiors might say, but when have they allowed superiors to govern their decisions and partnership? – she fills the silence. Of course, she doesn't have his skill in chattering, but he appreciates that she tries. He appreciates it more than he could ever possibly tell her.

"They're sad. But if you listen, they're hopeful," she informs him and brushes her silky fingertips across his weathered knuckles. Funny how both sets of hands have performed so much agony, funny how they seem so soft and gentle. He likes being awarded the privilege to see her like this, vulnerable and shy.

He laughs, short and bitterly, looking up. Pale sunlight streams through the window although it looks like it'll rain later today. Somehow, it's befitting. When the bitter laughter dies in his throat, he sits there, staring into the air like a blind man. "It wasn't in the pamphlet when I signed up," he starts, and if she weren't her, she'd have no idea what he is talking about. "It never said it was mandatory to deal with agents' funerals."

His voice is croaked, and he hates it. Yet her voice, as always, is calm and sympathetic, compassionate and patient. "But being a good person means going to people's funerals. Don't tell me Coulson never gave you the impression that people die," she snorts.

Clint smiles reluctantly. He rubs his hands, liking the distraction it provides. Yet when he realizes what he's doing, his eyes avert themselves to her. The perfectly styled red ringlets (it wasn't too long ago she was brunette, but after having been mistaken for Hill too many times, the latter realizing whom the junior agents feared more, she changed it back) hang like two spirals on each side of her face, the rest kept short enough to tame into a bun. She looks classy, and it's so different that it's inspiring. Before he registers his own movements, his index finger is playing with one ringlet, twisting it around, both playfully and absentmindedly.

When he looks up (which he does, for some reason, despite being taller, having twisted himself into some sort of puppy position that he, secretly, doesn't mind), he finds her bright eyes watching him. It's not a predatory gaze, or even the one she uses to draw in her prey, but it's curious the way an agent's shouldn't be. He sighs, feeling satisfied.

"Can't we just stay in?" he whines, and he knows that she can tell by the tone of his voice that he doesn't mean to sound like a greedy child. "It's not like people don't drop like flies in this organization."

It is true, whether they like it or not. They are notorious for skipping people's funerals, even good people. It just isn't their style to hang around and mourn. They busy themselves with missions, and most agents naturally assume them to be abroad when the memo comes around, hurdling agents together in churches, synagogues, etc. It's not that they plan their absence; they are thankful, though, for it. Escape artists, they prefer the job to actually dealing with the fact that people they've shared meals, booze, and jokes (and, on rare occasions, blood) with are now six feet under, never to complain about their annoying telepathic connection again (God knows, people have been weirded out by the easy way the partners seem to read each other, and junior agents have several monikers for the two-man terror team).

Today's different, though. Technically, Clint's not cleared for fieldwork yet, but that doesn't mean he can't go to this one. And Nat's right, he'll regret it if he doesn't go. He hates when she's right (but he hates it even more, he realizes, when she's wrong, because when it actually happens, it's often in mission assessments, and when that happens, they're both screwed, or because she pouts silently for days like a tortured animal; which makes Clint want to track down and hurt whoever is responsible, regardless of technical correctness). However, Nat's here because she knows him so well, well enough to know where he keeps his key and well enough to bring a second tie (that, of course, fits way better than the original one in color and texture).

"It doesn't feel right."

"Complaining won't make me change my mind," she replies stubbornly as she kneels elegantly down in front of him, stroking his thighs and knees and looking him in the eye before slinging the tie behind his neck with the same confidence she'd sling a rocket launcher across her shoulder, and Clint decides this must be what trust is like – entrusting the Black Widow a silk tie and letting her fumble with it around her neck – and he lets her. It's instinctual at this point, and it makes him smirk to think that he once was wary of her every movement.

He listens to her work, efficient folds and deft fingers. It's calming even if calming is not what he needs. Still, he observes her. She's ice, colorless and fragile and deadly, and she's warmth and reassurance and strength. Right now she's tying a tie he couldn't tie to save his life and he wishes he could do something like that for her (but then again, with the amount of dress back zippers he's closed over the years, maybe he's not so far). When she's done – too fast, or maybe he just let himself be beguiled by her – she rises and he rests his hands on her waist.

She catches his eyes and his smile wavers when he sees fearfulness. He lets go, not wanting to go anywhere she doesn't want to (even if they've comforted each other like this a thousand times) but her hands are there next moment, firmly putting his own back at her waist, smiling gently. They share an honest look that they'll deny later. Clint is suddenly hit with the fact that for every funeral he missed, there was a partner who'd lost someone like Tasha, and he can't imagine not having her by his side.

He pulls her in, and in that moment, they're not Hawkeye and Black Widow, but Clint and Natasha who are both hurting, and because they're going to a funeral, it somehow makes it okay (but they both know better; that, the following morning, they'll be expected to have moved on). "Tasha," he objects, knowing he can't afford to lose himself in the moment, and letting her know he's counting on her to pull him through.

She smiles, welcoming the embrace and is silent when she reaches for the flower. It's nothing special, really, a romanticized notion. The red rose petals contrast against her pale skin and black dress and overall emotions, and he watches her stare at it like it's the most curious wonder in the world.

"A little sappy, don't you think?" he wisecracks, reaching for the stupid rose. She withdraws her hand – and the rose – before he can grab hold of it. He rises from the bed, towering over her only because she's not wearing heels, and she's so small he feels like he could fit her in the palm of his hand like her namesake (which could prove just as unpleasant if he tried).

She takes the flower in her hand, careful not to cut herself on its thorns. She rolls the stem between her fingers. "I'm sure she'll appreciate it. I would."

They don't talk much during the ride to the funeral, and it's not unusual. What's unusual is that Nat acquiesce to letting him drive, allowing himself to be distracted by the simple task of driving from the insurmountable task of grieving. He doesn't quite know how to feel, and he thinks he's not build for grief (yet counters that all people must be, and it's ridiculous to think himself above such emotions) because it's never really been an issue until now. Not after he met Natasha. They've survived and endured and now their streak is broken, and it's supposed to hurt and it does.

Sometimes he wishes he could be more like her, more stoic, more calm, a better strategist in bad situations. Hell, he's insecure enough to want for her good looks and people skills (but he knows they come with a price). Then there are days he wishes she could be more like him because she can be such a goddamn _machine_ and it's more infuriating than explaining to a rookie why he doesn't do guns and favors an ancient weapon. She's the edge of the razor and he's the only one who can handle her. At least, he wants to be the only one, but she's good at what she does, so others have learned to accommodate. Yet it's not them whom she comforts and gently urges to go. And for that, he's grateful, because it means that he, to some small extent, matters to her, and it's all he's ever wanted since he met her (well, technically, he wanted for her to experience someone who cared for her, but that happened along the way and he couldn't fight it).

He pulls up to the curb and kills the engine, exhaling deeply as he realizes what he's actually doing. And she watches him from the passenger seat, eyes worried, blatantly worried, and it's what he needs, someone who'll tell him when he freaks. However, she's not like the others, and she doesn't call him out on it by stating he's a freak, merely reminding him that she's one, too, and it's okay.

"C'mon, Barton," she says gingerly as she opens the door to his side, having exited the car during his sudden blackout. "Do it like we do missions."

He smirks. "Guns blazing?" Clint asks jokingly. "Somehow, I think the minister would mind that."

"Then whatever is the civilian version of it," she says, making a _comme ci, comme __ç__a_ motion. She's wearing that daredevil smile that almost makes him consider it. Then the glumness of the place gets to him.

"I'd have never pegged you for a religious practitioner," he says just to say something. It's not that he thinks she'd disrespect religious customs, merely that she'd… disregard them. Some days, her training still shines through, and her masters didn't exactly focus on religion when they molded her. He's had to get used to that.

She shrugs as they cross the cemetery grounds. The green grass is still wet from the morning dew, and her shoes turn glassy. "My mother was Catholic," she says. "Orthodox. That was before…"

She swallows, and it's the first sign that she's uncomfortable discussing it, and he smiles reassuringly and takes her hand, with one look telling her it's okay if she doesn't want to tell him.

They reach the designated site (he's so used to mission lingo that he doesn't even notice the inappropriate term, but nevertheless, it fits, and maybe he's too old to change his habits) and find two seats. Agent funerals are never particularly crowded, but for operatives who are used to working solo or in pairs, it's always a bit overwhelming to see so many colleagues and bosses gathered in one place.

The ceremony is probably brief, but it feels like ages are passing as hymns are sung – and Clint listens and might have to concur with Natasha on this one, because beneath the desperate atmosphere of coping, there may be some prettiness – and the minister speaks in a tone Clint has often connected to battlefield speeches (which may not be too far from the truth, but he's used to have it accompanied by action, a call-to-arms, that it makes him fret in his chair – as always, Nat is there to calm him, and all she has to do is look at him with that soft, unusual and beguiling look) when he talks about the Lord and forgiveness without eyeing the present Gods at the actual ceremony.

And Steve delivers some speech but Clint doesn't quite listen (something he'll both be thankful for and berate himself for later on), instead he exchanges solemn, vulnerable gazes with his partner whose hand is clasped reassuringly atop his own. It makes it feel slightly better. He catches Tony and Bruce exchanging gazes and subsequently sending him worried glances, but Clint doesn't think of much of it. He has Natasha, his focus, and that's all that matters. Whatever joke Stark came up with can wait until after the ceremony (God knows the billionaire has horrible manners and timing).

Then suddenly, it's over and it's drizzling. People who've come for the sake of pretense quickly make their departure until there's only a small group of people left behind under black umbrellas that obscure their identities (still, he can name every one of them without turning around, and he doesn't know what that says about him or about them). Clint hasn't thought to bring his, and he'll probably regret not accepting the offer of one, but it doesn't feel quite right, escaping discomfort so easily at a funeral. She's standing beside him, hands buried in the folds of her dress. By the time he places the rose, the minister and others have sought refuge from the rain that has evolved. Two people remain behind him, and maybe that's how it's always been.

"_Hopeful_…" he repeats under his breath. He's lost sight of Natasha (he can't imagine the shoes having survived the muddy trip back to the car, and smiles mischievous at the idea of how impractical her footwear turned out to be) and he can practically sense Fury's dismay and Coulson's patience and sympathy. They know him, too, but not as well as Natasha, and so they don't pretend to offer condolences.

It's a beautiful spot, even now. He doesn't think he'll drop by much (because, really, self-delusions are redundant at this point, right?) but it's a nice thought. A nice sentiment, although it never really was her style.

He looks down at the gravestone – a flat, dull slate in the ground – and finally finds the courage the read the engravings. He briefly wonders who chose them, but whoever did must have known her, and yet not as well as he did. The words make him smile, though, and he supposes that's their intention. They're not here for her; they are here for the visitors.

_Natasha Romanoff_

_(Наталья Романова)_

He never gets further, emotions stirring before his mind can reach those meaningful and yet so empty words. As if ten words can summarize the complex person she'd been; it fails to anger him, though. Suffice to say, when he looks about, there is nobody standing with him in the rain.


End file.
